


if that mockingbird don't sing

by Anonymous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen Live, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Rhaegar has sort of learned his lesson, but the conviction that he's justified and can always fix things doesn't go away easily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 15:44:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: If a good father didn’t have favourite children, Rhaegar must be the worst father in the world.Some broken things can't be repaired, but Rhaegar Targaryen never learned to give up.





	if that mockingbird don't sing

She looked just like Elia.

Rhaegar stared at the portrait of his eldest child decorating the wall and thought back to better days, when she had adored him and clung to him and demanded his attention always.

It had made Elia endearingly grumpy.

_“All that time I spend with her,” _she’d said, _“and she still prefers you?”_

Now she could barely look at him. This way it had been for far, far longer than she’d loved him, now, but he still couldn’t grasp it – Rhaenys was little and hated shoes and loved cats and climbed into his lap to demand stories of dragons and their riders. She crawled into his bed and tugged him by the hand to play with her kitten and couldn’t sleep until he sang her a song. How could it have all gone so wrong?

It hadn’t always been like this, but there had been a fissure between them since he’d first returned home from the Trident, one that he hadn’t known how to repair, one that had broadened into an unbridgeable chasm. He knew where it had come from, of course he did – he might have been her favourite when she was a child, but _Elia. _He’d made a mess of his marriage, and ruined Elia’s life, and Rhaenys was more than clever enough to know it.

Their marriage hadn’t been a cold one. No, Elia had been always been warm. Responsible, clever Elia. Even better, she’d given him Rhaenys. How could he have ever looked elsewhere when she’d done that? Their daughter was eight and ten now and beautiful. She was clever and kind and just, and he should wed her to Aegon, but _how could he_? How could he make her marry her own brother when he’d _seen _what that caused?

If only he knew.

He dreamt of his wife that night, barefoot and clad in mourning white. At first, he thought she was Rhaenys, but no – Rhaenys wasn’t so thin and frail, didn’t leave her hair loose down her back, was younger and stronger. _Elia_.

_I love you, I love you, I love you, _he said, reaching out to her, but she drew back from his touch and looked up at him with judgement filled eyes.

_You don’t want to do this, Rhaegar._

As much as he wished he didn’t, he knew what she was talking about immediately.

_She would be queen, _he told the ghost. _She would rule the Seven Kingdoms at her brother’s side._

_She would be a prisoner, _his dead wife murmured back. The heat was gone, and those big dark eyes were wounded and reproachful.

_She’s too clever, too valuable an advisor to be sent off, _he argued.

_Marriage need not mean you lose that, _Elia shot back.

_She would be safer here, _he tried, and Elia countered, _safe from what?_

_She would…_

_You say _would _as if you’ve already made up your mind she won’t. _She touched him then, a hand against his chest and the other against his cheek. Her fingers were icier than they’d ever been in life. _When will it end, Rhaegar?_

He woke up not screaming, but gasping for breath.

_Elia, Elia, I’m sorry._

It took him several moments to compose himself, and several more to be able to think clearly again. When he could, he gritted his teeth and nodded to himself. So that it would be. That much, he could do.

* * *

He summoned Aegon and Jon to him whenever he wanted a word, but to Rhaenys, he went himself. He found her in her solar the next evening, surrounded by legal books and fingers smeared with ink.

“Father,” she said stiffly without getting up. “What do you need?”

No pomp, no preamble, no pleasantries. _Of course._

“I have been considering your marriage,” he said, swallowing the disappointment. “There are a number of potential candidates. I thought you might like to weigh in.”

Rhaenys raised her eyebrows and pressed her lips together without saying anything. Rhaegar soldiered on. “Willas Tyrell is an option. So are Robb Stark and –”

“You want me to marry a Stark?” she demanded, setting down her pen. “Have you not shamed my mother enough?”

“I just meant that he’s –”

“I heard you,” Rhaenys interrupted. “He’s an _option._”

She shook her head in disgust. “I can’t believe you would suggest that to me.”

“Rhaenys,” he pleaded. “Please, sweetling. I’m sorry. This isn’t about…”

She scoffed. “_Sorry. _Aren’t you always?”

She stood up, leaning forward over her desk. Her jaw was set, the softness that had barely been there to begin with gone. “I am a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and I will not be banished to some barren wasteland because you don’t want to look at me anymore.”

_Don’t want to look at you anymore? _Did she really believe that? If a good father didn’t have favourite children, Rhaegar must be the worst father in the world.

He didn’t think much about Lyanna anymore. If anyone knew that, they’d strike him in the face, king or no, because how could he have started a war because of a woman he didn’t care about enough to think about later over the mountain of corpses and rivers of blood?

They didn’t understand. They’d never understand.

Lyanna was dead and Elia was dead and the only way to see either of them was to look into his children’s faces and Rhaenys looked more like Elia than Jon could ever resemble Lyanna, even more than Aegon resembled him. She looked so much like Elia that it hurt to look at her, but the hurt was nothing, nothing next to the warmth of seeing the woman she’d become, remembering the pride of presenting her to his mother; the wonder he had felt when she had first learned to crawl, then walk; the joy of her gurgles and the glee of her first word.

A good father wouldn’t have favourite children. But the intensity of Rhaegar’s love of Rhaenys made everything else feel dim and dark and dull. He’d been pleased about Aegon, his prince that was promised, but being _pleased _wasn’t the same as the delight when the maester had placed Rhaenys in his arms, the dizzying elation of sitting with his arms around Elia and helping her hold their newborn daughter, the fierce protectiveness that flooded through him whenever Rhaenys had made a sound. He’d always tended to melancholy, but Rhaenys, Rhaenys, _Rhaenys _lifted that cloud like no one else ever could.

Aegon had been conceived under a comet of fate, Jon in a secluded tower away from the world, but neither of them felt anywhere near as special as the daughter. He hadn’t even been there for Jon’s birth, but when they’d finally met…he’d been a baby. Eyes, ears, fingers, toes. The sight of him hadn’t elicited anything near the joy of being presented with Rhaenys. Nothing ever could.

He’d left her behind. How could he have done that?

It all went back to that crown of winter roses, didn’t it? He’d commissioned Elia a crown just like it once they’d returned to Dragonstone, but of silver and sapphires. She had ordered it melted down, then donated the silver to one charity, the sapphires to another.

_“It would be foolish to don a crown, even if I were so vain, my prince,” _she’d said. _“Your father is yet king. Surely the coin would be better spent on those in need than on jewels I cannot wear.”_

It had been logical, the kind of cautious decision Elia always made, and her words were just as outwardly polite as ever. But she’d called him _my prince _when she’d always addressed him as _Rhaegar, _and her smile hadn’t been the blinding joy he’d grown accustomed to, and it had been painfully obvious how furious she was with him.

_It was just a crown of roses_, he’d wanted to say, but nothing was ever _just_ anything, least of all riding past the mother of his daughter to crown another woman with flowers at the greatest tourney in his lifetime in front of hundreds of people. He’d had no idea how to earn her forgiveness when she wouldn’t accept his gifts. Luckily for him, Elia had never been good at staying angry.

It hadn’t taken long before she’d deigned to smile at him as her belly had begun to swell with their son, even though he hadn’t apologized or explained himself. When he’d been allowed in to see her after the birth, she’d been borderline delirious and gripped his hand hard enough to break it, a wordless forgiveness and offer of another chance.

He’d stayed for two months after that, long enough to know that Elia would survive and learn that she would not be able to bear him another child and live, long enough to set his resolve and muster the conviction to leave, long enough to present Rhaenys with a kitten when he knew what he’d do so she’d have company while he was gone and Elia was bedridden. And even though his initial reaction to Aegon had been more along the lines of _satisfied _than delighted, reassured in his convictions and terrified for Elia, heartsick and guilty at the thought of what he had to do, the night before he’d left Dragonstone, he’d sat with his entire family and all he had felt was love for them all. He’d lifted a sleepy Rhaenys onto his lap and kissed his wife’s knuckles as he smiled at her. When she’d smiled back, weak and tired, bright and happy and with no blame, Aegon asleep against her breast, Rhaegar had known peace for the first time since he’d heard of the song of ice and fire.

Then he’d ruined it all by abandoning his wife in her sickbed to chase after his Visenya that never was.

She’d been the practical to his romantic, the dependable to his capricious, and he missed her more than he had ever thought possible. Had she died believing he’d left because of love, because she and the family they’d built didn’t matter to him? Had she died believing that that crown of roses had meant more to him than the cloak he’d draped over her shoulders and that she shouldn’t have melted the crown he’d gifted her so she could have instead thrown it at his head?

_It was just a crown of roses, _cool blue and fragile and representative of nothing and gone just like Elia. Now he could never tell her how hers was skin better suited for warmer colours, anyway, just as she’d worn. She had favoured jewellery that was all elegance, delicate spun gold and touches of amber. Rhaenys stored those precious treasures in her chambers, cherished them and loved them and donned instead the rubies and onyx of House Targaryen.

Now, she wore black and red and walked in a column of moonlight where her skin was made for the sunshine.

The sight warmed him at the same time as it made his gut churn. It wasn’t _right, _it wasn’t _her _– too harsh and stark and blunt – but they were his colours, and even if she hated him, she wasn’t rejecting this small part of him. He wasn’t fool enough to believe it was for him, but hope, hope that she’d forgive him one day? _That _he would never be able to resist.

“I am a Targaryen,” she hissed at him, leaning forward even more, hands braced against the desk. “No matter what you want to pretend.”

“I have _never _pretended otherwise,” he snapped. “You are Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen. You are my firstborn. No matter what, you will always be my daughter.”

“You say that,” she said, “and yet you want to marry me off to whichever lord you can think of that needs a bride. I may not inherit your throne, Father, but I am the blood of the dragon, and my place is here. I will _not _let you send me into exile.”

It was as if she’d shoved him, stolen all the air from his lungs. How could she ever think he’d _ever _cast her aside? There was no one in the _world, _dead or alive, that he loved more than her. If it had been his choice, _she_ would be his heir, next in line to be queen in her own right. The man he’d been twenty years ago would have named her such and damn the consequences, but he was older now, and perhaps wiser, cautious enough to know it was madness to risk civil war by favouring a daughter over a son when the son was not cruel or stupid or weak, but tempted to do it all the same.

Surely she knew he would never, _never, _cast her aside.

He was at a loss for words, but she wasn’t – she moved out from behind her desk and got in his face, unafraid, furious. “I’ll marry Aegon, I’m not giving anyone any reason to say I’m not a real Targaryen. I will not allow you to cast us aside, Father.”

“Rhaenys,” he said again. “That’s not – I don’t – I didn’t marry my sister, that doesn’t change that I’m a Targaryen.”

His daughter’s laugh was harsh and grating and nothing, nothing like the high, sweet giggle he’d known so well. “No, you didn’t. You married a princess of Dorne and decided polygamy was as Targaryen as anything. You thought about what you wanted without any regard for anyone else. And now I have to protect Aegon’s right. And my own.”

“Protect it from _who_?” he demanded. “Jon wouldn’t – you _like _him.”

“I do like him,” she agreed. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop being cautious. He doesn’t have to want to harm us for people to try it in his name. We’re Dornish, after all – Aegon may have forgotten the Blackfyre Rebellions, but I haven’t. I’m his sister. It’s my job to protect him. He will be king, I will be beside him, and we shall have no dispute over succession. If I have to marry him to ensure it, I will do it.”

_Don’t you see? _he wanted to shout. _I’m doing this for you!_

But he couldn’t tell her that, couldn’t convince her of anything, couldn’t…So instead, with the waver in his voice barely contained, he said, “You don’t want to do this, Rhaenys.”

Her chin jutted out like a challenge. “Of course I don’t. The thought makes me sick. But I will, Father. Sons and daughters have always paid the price for the sins of their forefathers. And now I must pay the price for yours.”

She strode out the door in swirls of silk, taller than Elia had been, even though she’d been tiny as a babe and a child. She was made for a crown, his daughter, poised and perfect. If only…

Rhaegar stared after her. Was it strange, to treasure even these moments with his daughter? Her anger and her loathing, her bitterness and her venom, all of it, because it meant she was alive to hate him? She might never love him again, but she was smart and beloved and maybe – _maybe _– he’d be able to fix _some _of it.

He sat down on the floor and closed his eyes. His knees protested the movement, but he ignored it, focusing on his breathing.

He thought.

Every breath of it was agony, but he could live with her hatred. He had for years now. What he could not live with was her unsafe, uncared for, unhappy. But he’d never been able to deny her anything – how could he both respect her wishes and stop her from making herself miserable?

He couldn’t marry her to Aegon, nor to anyone else. He couldn’t send her away, nor keep her here to be made unhappy by his presence. But what could he do?

It came to him in a flash: Summerhall had been built to celebrate peace with Dorne. Who better to claim it as a seat than the half-Dornish princess?

He’d begun restorations with the distant thought of giving it to Viserys, but this was better, this had to be fate. Viserys might not like it, but he was off in Sunspear. His wife would be the ruling princess and he’d be her consort. Their wedding had been to appease the Dornish, but it at least meant that he wasn’t there to compete with his family. Jon might be jealous, but he could never have Summerhall, never have a seat so close to Dorne. But Rhaenys, Rhaenys was perfect for this.

He couldn’t make her his heir, but Summerhall, Summerhall he could give her. It was a castle that he had every right to pass down to his daughter.

She wouldn’t have to wed her brother. She wouldn’t have to wed anyone.

He’d loved those ruins and grieved over them, visited them alone to play his harp and sleep under the stars. Surely she’d understand that, understand what it meant for him to gift it to her. Summerhall meant more to him than Dragonstone or King’s Landing ever had, just as she meant more to him than anyone else. Surely, a castle so close to Dorne all for her would make her realize that he didn’t _care _what colours she wore, that she was a Targaryen whether she wore yellow or green or white, whether she donned silver or gold, ruby or sapphire.

Or maybe it would make her think he was getting increasingly desperate to get rid of her, even though everything in him revolted at the idea of sending her away, of her leaving to go anywhere. He didn’t know how she would react to anything he did anymore.

He had to talk to her.

He scrambled to his feet and all but ran out of the room.

* * *

He found Daenerys sitting with Rhaenys’s brothers in the library, Rhaenys herself nowhere in sight.

“Father,” Aegon said, rising to greet him. Rhaegar gestured for him to sit back down.

“Have any of you seen Rhaenys?” he asked quietly. “I thought she’d be with you.”

Aegon blinked slowly and lowered his gaze for a moment. “Not since dinner. Jon?”

“She retired early,” Daenerys interjected as Jon shook his head. “She told me she had other business to attend to, but that we could still go riding tomorrow.”

Rhaegar inclined his head towards her. “Thank you, Dany. Enjoy the rest of your evening, all of you.”

He thought hard as he walked away.

Even as children, Rhaenys and Dany had been fond of each other. Viserys had even helped his niece hold the new baby, who’d been fascinated by the older girl’s long, dark curls. That fondness hadn’t faded. Dany would reach six and ten within the year, and Aegon – or maybe Jon – had let slip that Rhaenys already had plans to gift her a sand steed from Oberyn’s stables. She was always so careful about being the perfect Targaryen princess, so mindful of Baelor Breakspear, but she was willing to risk seeming Dornish for her aunt’s sake. And Dany…still, almost every other sentence out of her mouth seemed to involve some variation of _Rhaenys says._

She wasn’t yet promised to anyone, she could join Rhaenys’s household and they could go to Summerhall together. Rhaenys could arrange her aunt’s marriage. Surely that would convince his daughter that he was doing this for her, that he valued her, that he was still the man she’d instinctively trusted, even when scared and angry. When he’d first come home, all those years ago, she’d run into his arms and he’d held her tight and her anger hadn’t yet festered into bitterness and hate. That couldn't be gone, not forever.

He made his way to her chambers and knocked on the door. There was no response. He could see light shining through the bottom, so he knocked again, a little louder, and waited. When there was still no response, he pushed the door open.

A single candle still burned, casting long shadows across the walls. Rhaenys was asleep in a chair with a book open in her lap, and for the first time in a long time, he could take in the sight of her when she wasn’t angry or donning a gentle expression for petitioners. A worried frown creased her brow, and her eyes darted from side to side beneath the closed lids. Her face, round and rosy-cheeked as a child, now seemed almost gaunt. She wasn’t dressed for bed, but she’d changed out of her red gown and donned something soft and orange. Dark hair tumbled down her shoulders, unbound. Her fingers were free of her usual heavy, iron rings. She’d even put on one of Elia’s necklaces, something Oberyn had brought her from Essos before she had been betrothed to Rhaegar and that Rhaenys had kept safe. The ensemble together was more like Elia than Rhaenys ever dressed.

She had never looked less like her mother, or more like him.

He didn’t lift her, for fear of waking her, but he eased the book out of her hands, marked the page, and set it on the table before sitting down beside her. She was smaller in her sleep, less fierce and commanding and arresting, more vulnerable and subdued.

His little dragon.

If anyone was worthy of one, it was her.

Ah, that was something else he could do – he’d return to Dragonstone, to Summerhall, and he’d find her a dragon’s egg. There had to be some somewhere, and he’d search all of Westeros, and Essos, too, to find them, present them to his eldest. Surely _then _she’d understand how much he loved her.

One stormy night on Dragonstone, she’d begun crying, and the night nurse hadn’t been able to soothe her. He’d been out of bed and on his way to check on her in minutes. Oh, the pride he’d felt when she’d immediately stopped howling the moment he’d taken her into his arms! Rhaenys had been _his, _in a way that Aegon and Jon never were. He’d known what she wanted, how to make her laugh, how to calm her tears. She’d liked it when he played the harp and even more when he sang.

Now he started to hum, the same lullaby she’d loved as a babe. Rhaenys didn’t wake, so he dared to reach out and stroke her hair as he hummed. Her breathing remained deep and even. His eyes stung.

He finished the song.

He stayed there, by her side, for a greedy count of ten before rising. He fetched a blanket to wrap around her shoulders, rearranged the papers scattered around her, and refilled her half empty inkwell before he had to admit to himself that there was no more reason for him to be there.

He blew out the candle.

“Sleep well, Rhaenys,” he whispered, and he dropped a kiss to the top of his daughter’s head as he prepared to leave. “Dada is going to find you a dragon egg.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel at [all great and precious things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21868648).


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